Like You But Human
by LockedIn221B
Summary: Despite not meeting Sherlock, John still got into chasing criminals. AU. The detective is slightly jealous of this new crime fighter who is stealing his glory and swears that the man is up to no good. He is determined to find out more about John Watson.
1. John Watson

The detective felt the cold air burning in his lungs. The chase had been going on for 17 minutes and 37 seconds to be exact. It also didn't help that the genius hadn't slept for almost 4 days and was a heavy smoker.

He could feel the exhaustion collapsing upon him. It made him want to just stop and sleep. Right here, just on the floor of this dirty alley. _No! I'm on a case. I will catch this man. He will be tiring soon, any second now._

The world around the consulting detective suddenly became slow and every sound, even his own feet pounding on the ground, seemed distant. It was like he was in his own bubble separating him from the world.

The thundering of his pulse in his ears was the only clear sound. The detective's chest was being to hurt as he drew in each breath. He would have sworn he could taste blood in the back of his throat.

Suddenly, before the great detective had realised what was happening, he was falling rapidly towards the hard, cold tarmac. He would have said it hurt but he had blacked out before his body touched the floor.

He gave in to the darkness, practically embracing it. He wasn't going to fight it, not when it felt this good. The chase could wait, for now.

* * *

A hand gently shaking him pulled him out of the comfortable unconscious into reality where, frankly, his nose hurt. He groaned as he came to, feeling pain and aches all over his body.

"Sherlock? Come on, mate. We need to get you home." Lestrade's London accent just made his head hurt even worse.

Sherlock cracked his eyes open to see the DI leaning over him with a concerned expression. He groaned as the light assaulted his eyes. The genius could hear Donovan moaning, stood by the police car Sherlock supposed.

"If he's dead can't we just leave him to get eaten by pigeons or something?!" Both the men ignored the sergeant's bitter comment. Well, Lestrade ignored it. Sherlock just didn't have the energy to bite back with a scolding insult.

The consulting detective tried to push himself up into a sitting position and was successful with the help of Greg. Sherlock peered down at the tarmac to where a small pool of blood was drying slowly. The detective lifted a heavy hand to his nose to feel something wet stick on his fingers.

Lestrade noticed the detective's confusion was because of the blood drying around his nose, "We think you fell flat on your face when you blacked out and because you were unconscious you couldn't stop yourself hitting your nose."

Sherlock looked up at the sky noting that it was beginning to grow dark. He must have been unconscious for a few hours. That is the danger of sticking to back allies, no one goes down them.

"It took us a while to find you. You didn't even tell us what direction you went in. Thankfully, your brother has a few security cameras around the area so he pointed us in the right direction." Greg studied the other man's face to see if he was going to be sick.

"Come on! It's getting freezing. He's awake so let's hurry up and drop him home!" Sally hollowed from her position by the car.

"Can you stand up?" Sherlock send Greg a scaving look for asking such a question, "I'll take that a firm yes."

The younger man rolled his eyes as the police inspector tried to help him up. Greg wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist, frowning when he could feel his prominent bones through his thick coat. He obviously hadn't been eating again. The DI was about to mention it but the taller man knew what he was about to say, "Don't eat while on a case. Slows down thinking." Sherlock mumbled on the edge of sleep.

Greg sighed. Mrs Hudson wasn't going to be happy with the state of her tenant.

They stumbled the few meters to the end of the alley, where Donovan was waiting with the car door open. Lestrade sat Sherlock in the back seat but while he was getting in to the front the exhausted man collapsed across the back seats, falling into unconsciousness.

"He cannot keep doing this! It is so unprofessional!" Sally whined.

"Yes but on the same note of professionalism, isn't Anderson's wife away tonight? Sort out your own professional issues before having a go at him!" Greg lectured absently, distracted by the busy road. Donovan huffed and crossed her arms.

The journey to Baker Street took longer than expected because of busy traffic. The long wait was filled with nothing but silence and Sherlock's light snores.

When they arrived Mrs Hudson was waiting by the door looking concerned. Greg had told Sally to ring ahead so the landlady could have the door open for them to bring the consulting detective inside.

Lestrade opened up Sherlock's door and gently woke the sleeping man, "Come on, mate. We've got you home. All you need to do is walk up the stairs."

Donovan was sighing impatiently as Sherlock came to. The detective wanted to insult the woman but nothing of use was coming to the forefront of his brain.

Lestrade hooked his arm around Sherlock's waist again and pulled him out of the police car. He helped the stumbling genius to walked slowly across the pavement to where Mrs Hudson was waiting.

"Sherlock Holmes! The worry you put me through!" She scolded the man.

"If you wouldn't mind opening his flat, Mrs Hudson. It's just he is a lot heavier than he looks."

"Yes, yes! It's all open." The elderly woman waved them inside.

It took a while to get the partially unconscious man up to his flat even with Sally helping. A few times Sherlock had almost slipped completely out of Greg's grasp. As much as Sally didn't like the man, she realised that the faster they had him up the stairs the faster she could go home, so helped support the sagging man.

When they finally made it into the flat Sherlock tried to move towards the sofa but Greg easily guided the man to his bedroom.

"Come on, this way. You'll sleep better if you're in bed." Lestrade's London accent bringing the younger man back to consciousness slightly.

The police officers had to step around piles of books and papers to get to the man's bedroom which was just as messy. Experiments sat unfinished on shelves and old books lay open scattered around the room.

Greg put Sherlock gently down onto his bed and pulled off the man's shoes, coat and jacket. Laying them on a chair which was piled high with empty test tubes. The older man was about to leave the room when Sally's voice stopped him.

"Are you gonna leave him like that?"

"Yeah... Why?" Greg frowned and looked over at Sally who was gazing down at the asleep detective.

"No. I was just wondering." She turned to leave but Greg caught her wrist.

"Why?" He made his voice sterner, demanding a real answer.

"Well, shouldn't you put him in the recovery position? He is unconscious." She asked.

"I didn't realise you cared." Lestrade mocked quietly.

"I don't. It was just a suggestion." She quickly answered in a just as hushed tone. "It's just if he dies half of our cases will go unsolved and we will all get the sack."

Donovan turned and hurried out of the dark room to wait in the living room.

Greg let out a long-suffering sigh before moving Sherlock's long limbs into the recovery position so he wouldn't choke on any sick. He then pulled the blankets over the tall man and left the room.

He found Sally nosing through some of the boxes that sat on Sherlock's desk, "Have you seen some of this stuff?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Now put that down. You don't know where it's been and let's go!"

Sally practically threw the jar, of what looked like eyes, back into the box and followed the DI out of the flat.

Lestrade was about to pull away from the curb when he peered up at the sociopath's flat, "Remind me to arrange a drugs bust." Then he pulled away.

* * *

Sherlock awoke to the sound of Mrs Hudson making tea in the kitchen. He looked over to the clock by his bed and yawned. It was nearly 10am. The detective stretched as his landlady knocked gently on his bedroom door.

"Sherlock?" She called timidly. "Can I come in?"

The man grunted the affirmative and collapsed back onto his pillows craving the sleep that had just been taken from him.

"Morning, dear. It's time to get up. You've slept for almost 14 hours." Mrs Hudson placed the tea-tray on Sherlock's bedside table. The older woman jumped as the detective suddenly bolted upright in his bed sending blankets flying around the room.

Sherlock lent over and picked up a mug of tea. He sighed in satisfaction as he brought it up to his lips enjoying the taste and warmth it brought to his mouth. The genius watched as Mrs Hudson rushed around his room picking up books and putting them on the shelves and pulling his research papers into neat piles.

She was about to leave the room when she turned to Sherlock, "That nice policeman who brought you home last night asked me to say that you'd need to go to the station today to give a statement"

Sherlock groaned. He opened his mouth to protest but Mrs Hudson got in there first.

"No, Sherlock! After everything he did for you last night you can at least give a statement!" She said firmly before leaving Sherlock alone.

"I was doing something for him when I collapsed in the first place!" He shouted after her.

He listened but there was no reply. The sociopath sighed and pulled the blanket off his legs before heaving himself out of bed. He quickly changed into his favourite purple shirt and black suit before padding out into the living room.

He went through to the kitchen where his experiment on how different body parts absorbed water once removed from the body was soaking. He poked the floating toe with a spatula before turning to see what food Mrs Hudson had left for him.

He pulled a face at the cold Shepard's pie as if it had personally offended him. Sherlock scooped a lump of it onto a fork and swallowed it down. God, how I hate transport. He repeated the process until the majority of the food was gone.

The detective moved back through to his bedroom and slipped on his shoes. On the way out of the door he pulled his coat on and started off on his way to the Yard, only stopping to call goodbye to his landlady.

He hailed a cab and was at the police station within minutes. He threw 20 pounds at the driver before striding up the steps outside the building.

He made his way swiftly to Lestrade's office. As he got closer to the DI's office he saw a short man exiting it. He was walking backwards so he could continue to talk to the laughing policeman as he left. As a result of the man's backward walking he walked straight into the tall consulting detective.

Sherlock began to lose his balance and would have fallen to the floor if the shorter man hadn't suddenly twisted around and caught the detective. The man looked shocked but a friendly smile quickly grew on his face.

"Sorry, Mr Holmes. I'll be more careful next time." He smiled again at the taller man before walking off towards the department door.

Sherlock's eyes followed the man-_Grey strands in his short blonde hair suggests late 30s. The way he holds himself implies Military past so does the cropped hair, recently returned from Afghanistan or Iraq, judging by the tan on his hands and wrists, if it was a long time ago he would have probably gotten a job and seeing its working hours on a Thursday he probably doesn't. Invalided judging by the way he is starting to limp._

He was pulled from his rapid deductions by Lestrade calling his name.

"Sherlock? Are you looking for me?"

The detective turned around to see the DI leaning against the frame of his office door with his arms crossed. He had an expectant look on his face.

"Yes. You wanted a statement." Sherlock pushed past Lestrade and sat in one of the chairs opposite the desk.

"Yeah. I did" The detective inspector started to dig around in his drawer for a pen.

After Sherlock had given his statement, Greg began to explain to him what had happened the night before. He told him about how it took them nearly 2 hours to find him because he ran off with telling them where he was going. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the man's lecture.

"So you caught him?" Sherlock asked genuinely interested for the first time during the whole conversation.

"Yeah," Lestrade smiled satisfied. "Well, to be honest, it wasn't actually me. It was John."

Sherlock frowned in confusion, "John?"

"Yes, John Watson. You might have seen him on your way up. He was giving his statement this morning as well."

Sherlock nodded, "Quite short? Military background? Late 30s? Was invalided home in the last year?"

"Don't tell me you got all that from just looking at the bloke!"

Sherlock shrugged, "Who is he then?"

"He's like you... but human." Sherlock turned around to see Donovan standing in the door. He rolled his eyes at her comment.

"I asked something, Detective Inspector." Sherlock ignored Sally sneering in the doorway.

"I'm surprised you haven't bumped into him already... Although, he doesn't really help out in the Yard very often. He normally just helps out with the normal kind of criminal on the run type of cases. He only happened to know about this case and when he saw the man running he thought he'd grab him for us." Lestrade smiled until he saw Sherlock's vicious frown.

"How is he like me?" The consulting detective demanded to know.

Sally came and sat next to Sherlock, "He runs around chasing criminals and doesn't get paid for it but he's more human than you."

"How is he more human?" The detective crossed his arms with a huff.

"He doesn't do your weird 'look at someone and know their life story' and he also eats, sleeps and drinks regularly." She smirked as Sherlock couldn't argue with the evidence.

"Whatever!" Sherlock swiftly stood up and left in a swirl of curls and coat.

He was determined that he would find out more about this John Watson.


	2. Abandoned Factory

It was almost a week later the next time Sherlock bumped into the famous John Watson.

The detective's knees were hurting as he knelt on the cold concrete floor of the abandoned factory. The tight blindfold, made from his own scarf, was beginning to annoy the genius. Sherlock had both his arms held aloft next to his head of dark curls. Some of his front curls were matted with blood. His head had started bleeding when one of his captors punched Sherlock in the face. The man's ring had dug into the skin on the detective's forehead creating a large gash which was now bleeding profusely. The crimson liquid was beginning to trail down the tall man's sharp cheekbones when he heard a noise in the distance. He would have turned to see where the quite noise had come from but one of the thugs in the abandoned factory had the cold metal of a gun pressed hard against his ear. Sherlock's captors were too busy laughing and joking about catching the great Sherlock Holmes to have heard the noise.

The genius kept the 4 men who had him captive talking while he could hear the faint sound getting minutely louder. It sounded like gently foot fall on the concrete floor. It obviously wasn't Lestrade coming to save him because the incompetent fools at the Yard wouldn't be quiet. They would come barreling in, waving guns in the air while his captors shot them off one at a time like sitting ducks.

It wasn't Lestrade's team, even though it was their case, so who could it be. His rescuers steps were cautious and steady. He didn't know who this person was but he already felt slightly safer with them, seeing that they knew at least partly what to do which won't result in everyone being dead.

The sound of footsteps suddenly stopped and Sherlock panicked for a second. _What if they've changed their mind? What if they are leaving?_ The genius tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. He hated to admit it but he didn't actually have a plan. He needed rescuing and preferably soon.

Suddenly, there was a louder noise which came from the direction of Sherlock's might-be rescuer. The sound echoed throughout the old building making his captors fall silent. In Sherlock's head he clapped sarcastically, _well done, rescuer. Well done._ He wished that he could see their faces but instead he had to make do with just their heavy accented voices.

"James! Go and see what the noise was." The Londoner ordered.

Sherlock was about to smirk when the gun was removed from his head and instead the heavy instrument hit him on the back of the head. Even though he couldn't see the room, due to the blindfold, he could feel it spinning. The genius began to fall. Just before the detective blacked out he heard the leader of the gang speaking, "Good. That's the detective sorted out for now. Quick, boys! This better not be the cops!"

A loud bang was the last thing he heard.

* * *

Sherlock cracked his eyes open. Thankfully, the scarf had been removed from around his eyes allowing him to properly see the abandoned factory for the first time. He almost huffed as a overweight paramedic with commitment issues blocked his view. The large man was crouching down to check the detective's head wound. It was then that the genius realised that he was lying on his side on the floor. A few seconds later, it suddenly came to him that he was lying in the recovery position. He cursed the unconsciousness for slowing his incredible intellect.

He blinked at the paramedic who hadn't yet noticed that Sherlock had regained consciousness. As the stranger moved to the side to look into his medical kit Sherlock took the opportunity to push himself up from the floor into a sitting position.

The paramedic started flapping his arms around and telling the detective to lay down. Unfortunately for the man, Sherlock was ignoring him. The genius cast his gaze over the large area which was mostly empty save for the group of police officers standing idle by the entrance. Sherlock felt like sighing at their idiocy and ridiculous amount of incompetence.

Unsteadily, he got to his feet ignoring the paramedic's protests. He stumbled across the large space and when he got closer he could see what the people were crowding around. All four of his captors were unconscious and handcuffed to an old pipe which looped out of the wall.

Lestrade was crouching in front of one of the men taking a note of the few injuries they had. _It looked like a hard punch to the nose followed by a clean hit over the head_, Sherlock noted quickly.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked Lestrade.

"Don't you remember?" Greg stood up to face the tall genius.

"Obviously not, Lestrade. If I did I wouldn't have asked." The consulting detective snapped.

"What happened when you blacked out?" The DI tried to stay patient with the detective.

"I blacked out when I blacked out! Think about how you word your questions,please!" Sarcasm dripped in his tone.

"What happen leading up to you falling unconscious?" Greg began to tap his foot. He wasn't in the mood for this. If Sherlock had just waited for back up he wouldn't have been held captive.

"They blindfolded me. Pushed a gun to my head then hit me with it causing me to fall unconscious." Sherlock spoke condescendingly.

The detective inspector nodded as he wrote notes in his little book. The genius stood in front of him waiting for an explanation.

"I'll tell you in a minute, Sherlock. Just give me a second to move them into a van." He gestured to the men slumped against the dark red brick.

The detective huffed but shuffled away from where the police officers were standing. He moved over to one of the large windows. The glass was dirty but Sherlock could see through a gap in the glass where it had been smashed and a shard had fallen out. Down on the street he could see a short man limping towards an awaiting taxi. As the man opened the door he looked up at the old building behind him with a fond smile on his face.

The man suddenly winced in pain as the smile opened the small cut on his lip making it bleed again. As he got into the cab he held a hand to his lip in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Sherlock had recognized the man immediately. _John Watson._

The tall man watched as the taxi drove away from the abandoned factory. Sherlock jumped as Lestrade's voice reached him from across the room.

"Sherlock?" Greg called. "Oh for the love of God! Where has he got to?!" He muttered as his eyes searched the area for the tall man.

Sherlock didn't bother answering instead he just started walking back towards the DI.

"Oh! There you are." Greg said whilst looking up at the other detective.

Sherlock sighed. He was fed up with the niceties,"What happened? Why was John Watson here?"

"Umm, well. Basically, after you ran off we tried to follow you but you didn't tell us where you were going. We contacted your brother but he was in a meeting in Japan or something so couldn't help us. We then called John because he always seems to know where the trouble is." The detective inspector rubbed the back of his neck. "So he told us to come here. Once we had arrived he had them all unconscious and handcuffed to the wall."

The sociopath raised a sceptical eyebrow. Anyone would have problems disarming 4 large men let alone a invalid man. Greg noticed the detective's look of disbelief.

"I know it sounds unbelievable but there was nobody else here. We turned up and he was waiting outside the entrance with a bleeding lip. We didn't even think he had been inside yet. He told us that you were unconscious and he had left you in the recovery position up here. He's probably gone now. He was giving his statement to Donovan but said he was shooting off afterwards."

The annoying paramedic had approached Sherlock again and was trying to clean the wound on his head. The detective batted the obese man aside to continue his conversation with the DI.

"Where does he live?" The sociopath asked, planning a meeting in his head.

"I dunno." Lestrade answered plainly, shrugging. Sherlock frowned at the man. How didn't he know where this man lived? Greg saw the confusion on Sherlock's face. It was a look he rarely got to see. "Well, he keeps out of trouble so we haven't been called to his house or flat or whatever he lives in. I think he values his privacy. He hasn't told anyone on the force much about himself or where he lives. If we need him we have to call his mobile."

The genius frowned even more_. So the Yard know nothing about this man yet trust him. They don't know his background, where he lives or anything. A_lso, he somehow knows we're the trouble is. Even with his homeless network Sherlock finds it hard to locate where the crimes are. _How is it possible for a normal man to know where it would be?_, Sherlock mused.

"Oi!" Greg's voiced pulled him from his ponderings. "And don't go snooping around! It's none of your business!"

Sherlock looked down at the DI. Of course he would obey his orders... Not


	3. Confession

Sherlock threw the sheets of paper into the air and watched as they gracefully floated to the floor around him. He sighed and allowed himself to collapse on the floor. Sherlock stared up at the ceiling for almost 10 minutes before his mobile rang. The genius tried to ignore it but the buzzing was getting on his nerves. The genius lifted his head in a feeble search for the device. His eyes landed on the vibrating object which was sat on his desk.

He groaned and moved to get up but the ringing stopped suddenly so the man allowed himself to crash to the floor again. He wasn't moving all the way over there just to check a missed call. He closed his eyes in an attempt to sooth the throbbing headache that was assaulting his brain. He had collected the evidence from Mycroft but it seemed that the last piece of the puzzle was missing. The sheets had given him information but only things he had already figured out. The thin man groaned and threw his arms up to cover his eyes.

Sherlock knew that without the evidence, which he was sure was somewhere, the case couldn't be taken to court. All that was required was either a piece of paper which had the suspect's bank statement on it or for the suspect to just admit to murdering the woman from his local pub. At the rate this search as going, getting his confession seemed somewhat easier.

The detective stayed completely still as his headache worsened. He had been reading through these boring sheets of statements for the last 4 hours. _It has to be here somewhere_, the sociopath encouraged himself.

The genius had began to push himself to his feet when his phone started chirping again. He glanced over at it lazily before stumbling over to the device.

"Holmes." He muttered distantly while pulling some paper around the floor with his toe.

"Sherlock?! Thank God! We've been trying to get a hold of you for the last two hours." Lestrade said on the other end.

The sociopath's eyes drifted over to the clock. It had been almost 2 hours since he threw the paper everywhere, "I may have slipped off into my mind palace." He uttered almost silently.

"Well, it doesn't matter now. Quick! Do you have any questions for the suspect?" Greg asked quickly.

"Of course I do!" The genius began to put his shoes on. "One minute. You've got him?" Sherlock asked while hurrying towards the door and pulling his Belstaff over his thin shoulders.

"Yes!" Lestrade replied proudly, "It was-"

Greg was cut off as Sherlock leapt down the stairs and hung up on the DI. The policeman sighed and slipped his mobile back into his pocket. He rubbed his eyes and leant back heavily on his chair. There was a noise and Greg looked up to the door of his office. Sally stood with her arms folded tightly to her chest. She leant against the door frame with a scowl on her lips.

"Why are you calling the Freak in? We've got who we wanted." Donovan sneered.

Lestrade sighed, "Yes but after all he has done for us he should at least be allowed to ask his own questions."

The policewoman waved her hand vaguely and turned to stride out of the office. Lestrade watched his subordinate go. He shook his head and waited for the consulting detective to arrive.

* * *

The detective marched up the steps outside Scotland Yard. He dodged the policemen and women who were wondering slowly, in the sociopath's opinion, towards the elevator.

He jabbed the button which would send him up to Lestrade's office and the elevator glided up seconds later.

As soon as the doors had opened, Sherlock was striding out into the department that Lestrade was in charge of. The police officers, who sat at their desks, looked up as the sociopath flew pass with his coat billowing behind man had to stop himself running as he made his way to the office reserved especially for Lestrade.

"Where is he?" Sherlock tried to disguise the fact that he was panting. He really needed to eat more.

"In the hold cell." Greg answered as he followed the genius out of the room quickly. Sherlock was already storming off towards the cells.

Within minutes, they were down at the row of cells. Sherlock took a step forward further down the corridor.

"Which one?" The consulting detective whispered.

"Yours." The officer chuckled slightly as the ebony haired man scowled at him. The morons had named the cell Sherlock's after he was repeatedly arrested, for different reasons, but always put in the cell furthest away from whatever poor soul was keeping watch.

The detective huffed and strode towards his cell while muttering under his breath.

He arrived at the cell and slipped the hatch across so he could see the man. He looked terrible. His hair was matted with what looked like mud and his face had a fair scattering of bruises. The man had a grey blanket wrapped around his dripping shoulders.

"What happened to him?" Sherlock asked slightly concerned about the man's appearance.

"Apparently, he was being un cooperative and then walked into a pole before jumping into the Thames."

"Apparently?" The genius asked sceptically.

"That's what John says happened." The detective scowled at the mention of this ex-soldier. "Why was he involved with this case?!" The sociopath demanded to know.

"I don't know. I think he was here then heard about it so went out looking for him." The police officer tried to justify the man's actions.

"and you've got a confession out of him?"

On the word confession the man in the cell began to cry out, "It was me. I did it. I murdered her. It was me!"

Sherlock slid the hatch across quickly and the man inside went silent apart from the sound of violent sobbing.

"How did he find him? Even I couldn't find him!"Sherlock bellowed. The taller man's voice echoed around the cold tiled walls.

"I don't know! He was furious when he arrived though. He had a cut on his face and be wouldn't let anyone else look to clean it."

"He's a doctor. We all know they make bad patients." Sherlock mumbled as he got lost deep in thought.

"What?!" Greg's eyes widened slightly. "He never told me that he was a doctor!"

"He was angry...Although, most people are when they have adrenaline pumping through their veins." The consulting detective muttered.

"No, Sherlock. You don't understand. I think he knew the victim." Lestrade explained to the detective.

The sociopath frowned. _Surely not?_

"Lestrade. How much about our latest cases does this 'John Watson know?" The genius asked with a raised eyebrow.

The police officer opened his mouth to speak but the words froze in his mouth as he processed what he had done. His eyes widened even further and he paled. A look of sudden realisation crossed his face. _What if John Watson isn't who he says he is?_


	4. Following Cabs

The consulting detective waited in the mouth of an alley opposite Scotland Yard. He watched every person who stepped out of the glass doors. The genius stood on the edge, ready to leap after the man he was waiting for. His eyes scanned the people who moved around on the pavements.

Men in expensive suits bustled along the street side by side with women in posh blouses, each in a rush to reach their next meeting. They, experienced Londoners, dodged the shoppers and tourists who crowded the pavements and wandered along aimlessly.

Movement from the doors made the detective look over to the front of Scotland Yard. The man he had been waiting for came limping out. _Doctor John Watson._ The cane that Sherlock knew John should have was nowhere to be seen and the doctor was beginning to struggle without it. He had obviously thought that he could last with leaving the cane at his house.

The doctor quickly hurried down the steps so that he was beside the road. People barged into the hobbling doctor as he attempted stop in their flow. The short man stuck his hand out to hail a passing cab and Sherlock sprang into action. He rushed to the curb and threw his arm up to get the attention of a passing cab driver.

A familiar black car pulled up in front of the tall man almost immediately. Sherlock saw John sigh as the vehicle had passed straight passed him.

The sociopath clambered into the cab and lent forward to look like he was speaking with the driver when actually watching the blonde doctor across the road.

"Where to?" The cabbie asked after Sherlock hadn't spoken.

"When my friend there gets into a cab we will be following him." The genius stated quickly.

"Ummm," The man shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not sure."

The man didn't trust that Sherlock was John's friend.

"I'll pay double." Sherlock bribed with even looking at the cabbie.

He could practically hear the cogs turning in the driver's head as be weighed up the pros and cons.

"Fine." The cabbie grumbled just in time as a taxi stopped in front of John.

Sherlock's cabbie pulled away slowly from the curb and got behind the other taxi. They began to follow John slowly and discreetly. Sherlock had to admit that his taxi driver was good at this. He always stayed one or two cars back to avoid detection and weaved in between traffic as if he was ferrying a normal passenger.

The journey began to go on for longer than the consulting detective had expected.

A frown slowly formed on the sociopath's face as the drove further and further away from the centre of London. _Surely John didn't travel this far in everyday? _

The tall skyscrapers were doing dwindling down to just tall apartments and buildings, all the large offices of the major coperations had been left behind.

They were entering a darker and rougher side of London and Sherlock could see the cab driver getting increasingly shifty and alert. He probably didn't come into this area often.

They had been travelling for almost 45 minutes now and Sherlock was sure that John knew that he was being followed after all, the roads were almost empty.

The sociopath tapped his foot on the floor of the taxi in impatience. _Where are they going?_

The cabbie switched the lights on as the shadows grew longer. They carried on through the rough neighbourhood. John's cab suddenly took a sudden turn into an apartment complex and Sherlock's driver braked sharply at the entrance of the road. The road itself was potholed and cracked while large trees hung overhead making it dark. Sherlock could imagine it being a crime scene one day, a scene of a murder.

"Sorry mate," The cabbie turned to speak with the detective. "I'm not going down there."

"Fine," The genius huffed. "Stay here. I'll need a lift back to London after I write down the address."

The cabbie agreed hesitantly. Sherlock slid out of the car and strode down the dark road towards the flats that be could see on the other end of the 300 meter stretch. He wouldn't admit that he was also uncomfortable here.

_**I'm sorry that it is a short chapter but I wanted to leave it there so I have time to describe the flats. **_

_**Lockie x**_


	5. Flat 12

The detective stumbled down the road. It had giant potholes that he kept falling down and twisting his ankle. He grumbled under his breath and cursed the doctor for living in such a run down part of outer London. The tall trees that had grown over the road to create a tunnel effect were thick so only small amounts of light could break through and light the way ahead.

Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder to where his taxi was waiting. The cabbie was tapping nervously on the steering wheel as a large gang men with large tattoos strode past the car.

Sherlock continued forward as he could see the block of flats getting closer at the other end of the tree tunnel.

He finally made it out into the light. He had to blink as his eyes to adjusted to the sudden brightness. He glanced around the large car park the road had led him out to. There was a car here and there but the parking spaces were mostly empty. Sherlock put it down to the rough area.

The large block of flats towered high into the air. There must have been tens of floors but which one was our John Watson on? The block looked like a giant mass of cement with windows. It was dark and graffiti was drawn as high as the young vandals could reach to spray tags and names. Many of the small windows were open and had towels and items of clothing out to dry. The entrance doors looked practically bomb proof with their thick metal framework and no glass.

As Sherlock walked out from the trees he could see John's cab outside the entrance and the doctor limping out. His need for a cane was blatantly obvious. As Sherlock crept closer he was extremely aware of his feet crunching on the broken glass that lay shattered on the car park floor. He just hoped that John would continue in to the block without glancing around that car park.

The doctor hobbled further forward and typed in a security code into a small metal box by the side of the door. He waited, with his hand on the handle, until he heard the beep then he pulled the heavy door open and marched in. Just after John was inside, Sherlock raced forward and put his foot in the door so it didn't click shut. Then he waited. He waited a few minutes so the doctor would have a chance to get up the first flight of stairs and it didn't look like he was being followed. After a couple of minutes, the genius pulled open the door and strode towards the concrete steps that went up, seemingly, forever.

Sherlock listened and in the distance he could hear grunts of pain as someone walked the stairs. The detective stepped up and silently jogged the stairs until he could see the struggling doctor. He then hung back behind the corner of the stairs until the blonde man had exited the stairwell and moved into the corridor area where our row of the painted red doors were. Luckily, for the doctor, he only lived on the 3rd level.

The door to number 12 was just swinging shut as the sociopath stuck his head around the corner. The genius then turned and started to stride back down the stairs, only to stop half way down the first set on his back towards the ground floor. He lowered himself into one of the cold steps with a wince of disgust for his favourite coat.

He pulled his phone out of the coat pocket and opened up his notes. He had some time to kill. The detective sat for a solid two hours as he waited for the sun to finally set and then wait longer for his opportunity to arise.

He jotted down notes as he waited. He knew when his time came because the clock on his phone ticked over to 10:30. He had been sat on the cold steps for almost 4 hours. The detective had attempted to ignore the residents walking up and down the dull stairwell but it had began to annoy him, their constant curiosity.

The sociopath stood and stretched his arms into the air as a yawn broke out of his mouth. He rolled his neck and shoulders as he began to silently climb the remaining steps to reach John's level. Once he reached the area with all the doors he strode over to the red door with 12 written on in in permanent marker and unwilling put his ear to the cold door. He listened.

No sound echoed around the flat which was a promising sign for the detective. From an inside pocket, he pulled a small fabric sleeve full of devices to pick locks. He knelt down and placed the sleeve on the dirty floor by the bottom of the door. He slipped out a thick wire and held it up in the flickering artificial light. He nodded in satisfaction before wriggling it into the lock. He twisted it and pushed and wriggled it but the click didn't come. The genius pulled a face of surprise as the doors in the building were more secure than he had previously expected. He pulled out a thicker wire and a instrument that you'd expect to see in a dentist surgery. He manoeuvred the wire in and with the other instrument he guided it towards the lock and pushed it across. The door unlocked with a soft but satisfying click and a mischievous grin formed on the sociopath's face.

The detective returned the lock picking devices to their places then rolled up the fabric sleeve and tucked it into his inside coat pocket. He stood and gently pushed the door open to reveal a small living room area. The genius stepped inside quietly and pushed the door behind him, not quite but almost, closed. He left the tiniest gap so quick escapes were possible but the flat wouldn't become a target for theft or burglary while he was there. It also allowed a slither of light to penetrate the dark room.

The flat was small and basic. It had the odd piece of furniture here and there but it was mostly bare. A small set of drawers was sat against the far wall. There was an old armchair next to a standing light and a small circular side table was placed under the light. A book was left with its spine up and pages spread against the polished wood. The table was acting as an over sized bookmark. The genius glanced around the dark flat, only the light from outside the window lit the room. He moved silently towards the chair after checking that the coast was clear and picked up the book. _The fireplace. _The spine was old and worn where the reader had opened it so frequently. The corners of the paperback cover were beginning to fray and become battered. The corner of almost every page had been folded in the past to act as a bookmark when one wasn't in easy reach. Keeping his thumb on the page, Sherlock flipped through the old pages.

He lay it down again in exactly the position he found it. The glanced over his shoulder to make sure that he wasn't being watched before he crept over to the set of drawers. He pulled open the first drawer and dug through pens, shopping lists and other unuseful things. _Documents, documents, documents. I need documents._ The detective then knelt down to begin searching through the second drawer.

There was a sudden sound and the sociopath froze so he could peer around the room. He waited but the sound didn't continue so he carried on sifting through the bits and pieces in the drawer silently. He picked up a piece of paper and examined it. He was searching for any evidence that John Watson was not actually, John Watson.

_Click._

Sherlock froze as the front door clicked softly shut. He swallowed and listened for movement or footsteps. Nothing came so, even quieter than last time, he continued rummaging through the drawer and picking up paper that he hoped revealed the truth.

_**Click. **_

The cold metal click of the safely being turned off on a gun echoed through the tiny flat from just behind his head and Sherlock froze. _Oh no._


End file.
